Because the girls were such good friends, a dinner was arranged. Natalia could still see her father nervously squeezing oil into his thick rough hair. Her mother, in her blue serge church dress, was frumpy next to Mariel’s mother, in high heels and a red cocktail dress cut low in the back. Food was served on gold-rimmed china, and there was a servant. Roses decorated the table. Natalia’s mother chattered nervously. Mariel’s parents tried to put her at ease. Her father’s one comment about the evening, a comment he repeated over the years, was that there was not enough meat on Mariel’s mother’s bones.
Five years after their meal, Mariel’s parents were killed on the Autobahn, driving to an art fair in Frankfurt. Mariel was seventeen. She insisted on staying in the apartment; her mother’s sister came for a year. When Mariel could finally talk about her parents again, she said reading had saved her life. That and Natalia’s parents, who treated her like a second daughter.
Now, immediately upon arriving at Mariel’s, Natalia blurted out what had just happened with Pino on the hill above the harbor.
“It’s an illusion, dear,” Mariel said, pouring her friend a glass of wine. “You’re not in love with Pino Loriano. Trust me.”
“I hate that expression—‘trust me.’ It generally means the opposite.”
“Sorry.”
“No,
I’m
sorry. I’m being terrible.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re under a lot of pressure. A girl is dead. Her killer is walking around. You have a difficult job. Impossible. Give yourself a break. Besides, maybe I’m wrong. After all, I haven’t exactly been too successful in the men department.”
Natalia shook her head. “That’s because you don’t want to be.”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“Here’s to you. To us.” Lola smiled as she and Mariel clinked Natalia’s glass.
“To us.”
Mariel handed over presents: a pair of black Capri pants, then an orange chiffon top with a plunging neckline.
“I can’t wear this!” Natalia protested, holding up the top and laughing.
“You are thirty-five, not a hundred and five. Wear it! That’s an order, Captain Monte! Oh, and this is from Lola.”
“Lola?”
“Yes. Me.”
It was a pair of gold earrings, nestled inside a plain black box. They were lavish—a cascade of delicate gold bits, studded with some kind of gemstones.
“Lola, what have you
done
?” Natalia said, holding one of the earrings up to her face. “What do you think?”
“Gorgeous,” Mariel said. “Let me see those.”
“Girlfriend,” said Lola, “those are sapphires and pearls!”
Natalia gasped. “You’re kidding!”
“So,” Natalia said to Mariel, taking a sip of wine. “What’s the latest with Stefano?”
“Stefano is married,” Mariel said, with a dismissive wave.
“If he weren’t.”
“But he is.”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“Okay. Yes. Maybe. In the next life, I’ll date him—okay? And I’ll spring for a new set of teeth.”
“The next life. You sound like your
nonna.
”
“I’ve been thinking about her today. Remember how she always said, ‘Sometimes a thing seems like a piece of cake, but then you never know how long the cake has been sitting around’?”
“Yeah.” Lola laughed.
“I don’t think she was talking about cake, but remember her chocolate cake? We stopped in after school at least twice a week.”
“Stop. You’re making me hungry again.”
“You’re in luck. I bought a
torta al cioccolato
for you—for old times’ sake.”
“You sweetheart.”
“Yes, well … I’ve been thinking about Nonna a lot lately, wondering if she was lonely in her last years.”
“My Nonna loved you,” said Natalia.
Lola’s grandmother knocked on the ceiling to signal dinner, and the friends retired to the floor below to eat and enjoy one another further. The three rarely managed to get together any more. Nonna had outdone herself preparing Natalia’s favorite:
branzino
, freshly grilled—garlic and parsley added, along with Parmigiano, pine nuts, and raisins.
Around midnight, Mariel stood up. “I’m tipsy. It’s late. You’ll take the rest of the cake with you. I’ll call a cab.”
“Not the whole cake. A piece,” Natalia said. “And no cab. The walk will do me good.”
“Then I’ll walk with you,” Lola said. She went into the kitchen and returned with a large bag.
“Cake and presents. Here.”
“You’re like my Nonna,” Natalia said to Lola’s nonna, “always trying to fatten me up.” She took the bag. “
Ti ringrazio tanto
. But, Lola, you stay here. Otherwise we’ll be walking each other back and forth until the sun comes up.”
Mariel giggled. “What kind of Carabiniere is afraid to walk by herself at night?”
Natalia kissed her friends on each cheek and picked up another present, a thin blue cashmere scarf. She draped it around her neck. It set off her new earrings splendidly.
“
Bella
,” Lola said, admiring.
“Be careful,” her grandmother said. “You have your big gun with you?”
“Yes, Mama, I have my gun.” She kissed Nonna goodbye and thanked her for the delicious meal.
Natalia’s heels echoed on the stairs and the street. Most people were home, preparing for bed or already deep in the land of dreams. She passed the Musici per il Momento music shop. The store had been in this same spot her entire life. During business hours, an aria from an opera scratched from a speaker by the door. Farther along, a bouquet of mimosa stood in a pitcher in front of a shrine. A fat candle burned beside it.
Natalia crossed at the intersection.
She could smell a cigarette burning—most likely a
donna
on her balcony, invisible in the dark, enjoying a smoke. Suddenly there were footsteps behind her. She looked around. There were only shadows. Panicky, she slipped her hand into the special compartment housing her 9-mm Beretta and took hold of the large grip. She had only fired her weapon once in the line of duty. A man moved out of the darkness. A crazy man, his hair wild.
“Hey, Beautiful!” he called.
When he got close, she recognized the first boy she’d ever kissed. His grin was as sweet as when she’d been fifteen and he eighteen, but a couple of his teeth had gone missing.
Gypsy blood, her mother had said when she discovered Natalia and Tomas together in Piazza Gaetano. Her mother’s disapproval only made her want him more. Heavy petting followed. She let him touch her breasts. Shocking, the first inkling of real sexual desire.
“Tomas,” she said, smiling.
Natalia stepped closer. He still had the deep-set eyes that, when they caught the light, appeared to be amber. Tonight they were merely dark, the circles under them more pronounced. Natalia must have spent a hundred hours looking into his eyes back then.
“So.” He took her hands in his. His grip was firm. “I wondered what happened to you. I heard bits and pieces over the years. And my mother always asks about you. She hoped we’d get married.” He laughed. “So did I.”
“It is amazing to run into you. After all this time.”
He let go of her hands. “You’re in law enforcement. And you never married. Did I break your heart?”
“What about you, Tomas?” Natalia asked. “How did you make out?”
“Me? Pretty good. I pour concrete. Supervise it. There’s a living in it. I got three kids. A wife. I married Concetta Milo.”
Natalia recalled Concetta, a tough girl from Tomas’s block. The third of ten children. Her mother cleaned houses. Her father turnstiled in and out of jail. At thirteen, Concetta had frosted her hair, put on short skirts, and came on to any man who looked her way. She could have done worse than Tomas.
“But you look good, Natalia, real good! You kept your figure. My mother always liked you. Said you were too good for me. So … what are you doin’ out so late?”
“Birthday dinner with my girlfriends. You remember Mariel. And Lola?”
“Your old gang. Yeah, yeah. Mariel the reader. And that’s Lola who married Frankie, right?”
“Yes. We still see each other whenever we can.”
“Must be complicated for you with Lola being … never mind,” he stammered. “We should get together too, some time. A coffee. Dinner.”
The moment deflated. She sensed a lame come-on coming on. Hopefully it would be another decade and a half before she ran into him again. We made our choices, she wanted to say, now we have to live with them.
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “That would be nice. Great to see you, Tomas.”
“You too,” he said. “Look.…” He took her hands again.
“It’s—ah—late. I better get going.”
Natalia tried to take back her hands from his. He didn’t let go.
“Tomas!” she said, pulling harder. “Cut it out.”
The
donna
had gone from her balcony. They were alone in the dark street. A shadow moved toward them from the wall and grabbed her purse but didn’t snatch it off her shoulder, just held it.
“Don’t worry,” Tomas said. “No one is going to hurt you.”
The shadow man slipped something into the purse.
“What is this about, Tomas?” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“A donation to your favorite charity. A cruise. A car. Anything you want it to be, honey.”
“
What?
”
“There’s an envelope in your handbag with fifty thousand euros.”
“Excuse me?”
“Work with me here and we don’t have a problem. It’s simple. You don’t have to tire your pretty head. Okay?”
He was getting irritated. Natalia willed herself not to say anything.
“Remember where you come from, is all. You’re one of us—like Lola and me—not them.”
“You’re with Gambini,” she said. “Tomas—”
“Happy birthday.”
Her hands came free and he vanished back into the dark from where he had come. A Camorra thug. Her mother was right. But what choice did Tomas really have, born in the slums of Naples? Where had the sweet boy gone with whom she’d lost her virginity? Would she have to meet more old friends clandestinely from now on, as she did Lola, because so many had gone over to illegality and were no longer proper acquaintances for an officer of the Carabinieri? What would she do if they called her on it?
Natalia located her gun and her wallet. There was the envelope. She took it out and opened it. Bills. Lots of them. Did Gambini truly think he could buy her? Had he succeeded with this gambit with any of her colleagues? She never heard it discussed, but she knew it happened. It was easy to imagine someone struggling financially, in debt. Coping with an ailing parent. A sick child. Carabinieri salaries weren’t much.
She continued across the small deserted piazza into which Via Altri, her street, dead-ended. Hand on her gun, she opened the door to the courtyard. The windows above were dark. A couple of towels remained on the line. They twisted in the black night, illuminated by the moon.
Bypassing the elevator, she climbed the three flights. She was out of breath by the time she reached her landing. She slipped her key into the lock and opened her front door, then secured it behind her. Putting down her bags and purse, she took out her automatic and slipped out of her shoes. In the kitchen, she rummaged in the cabinet for an old bottle of scotch, opened it and poured out a shot, slugging it down. Then she stripped off her clothes and fell exhausted into bed, holding her Beretta to her breast like a doll.
How excited she had been to have her own apartment, and proud that day with Mariel and Tomas when they’d found it, rundown, like all flats in the old neighborhoods, but with marble floors in the kitchen and bathroom and decorative molding along the edges of the high ceiling. She’d enlisted Tomas to bring a ladder, and he had helped her plaster over the cracks and paint the rooms. Buttercup for the kitchen, ochre for the bedroom, a faint red in the living room, and the ceiling a periwinkle blue.
She’d inherited her parents’ carved bed and a dresser. Mariel contributed the most elegant piece—a dusty-rose velvet couch of her grandmother’s. Natalia remembered the place fondly, and the lazy afternoons in bed with Tomas. There had been no dramatic breakup, more like a slow drifting in different directions. One day he just stopped coming around.
Natalia hadn’t purchased anything new for the house in years—she who once had fantasized hosting elegant dinner parties hadn’t so much as a coaster to offer guests. Not that there were many. After a day at work, she barely managed to warm some pizza and eat it by herself from a tray.
Too wound up to sleep, she got up, slipped on a robe, and stepped out on the balcony. The night was warm and quiet. Windows were shuttered. Across the way, Mrs. Bruna’s balcony was thick with potted plants she had carried out from her apartment in anticipation of rain. Her arthritis was more reliable than the weather reports. The perfume of honeysuckle and red lilies reached across to Natalia.
Down below, a lone parked car hugged the wall of the narrow street. Not a street where anyone parked their vehicle for the night. The tip of a cigarette flared in the windshield on the driver’s side. Heart thudding, Natalia returned inside and found her cell phone. It was three-thirty in the morning when she punched in Pino’s number.
“
Pronto
.” His voice was sleepy.
“Pino?”
“Natalia. What’s wrong?”
“I just got hassled by one of Gambini’s men on the way home and now there’s someone sitting in a Fiat downstairs—watching.”
“I’ll be there in nine minutes.” The phone went dead.
Natalia put on pajamas and the robe again, took up her pistol and cell phone, and headed downstairs. In the courtyard, she went to the smaller exterior door and opened it a crack. The passenger-side window was open on the Fiat: an elbow protruded. The odor of the garbage at street level was more than pungent. Anger was catching up to her fear and passing it. Natalia calmed herself and stepped out into the street, the Beretta in both hands, finger on the trigger. Safety off, barrel down, she walked slowly toward the car.
The cigarette flew out onto the cobblestones as she approached. Headlights snapped on. The engine surged as the Fiat backed away fast, turning around at the next intersection with an alley, and screeching off.